Chapter Three
One day of being avoided by servants led Kiara close to apoplexy. Without someone to talk to, and without really knowing where any of the other Highborn were, it left her chomping at the bit, wanting something, anything to take her out of this. She tried asking the servants about where to find Vasha, but they flushed and didn't say anything, until Winifred admitted, in that infuriating, roundabout way of not really addressing her, that she wasn't allowed to leave until she had been chosen by a god.
Which meant—if they didn't select her within this week, she'd need to wait another month. A month of not talking to people, of being confined to a small section of a big city.
No way. The mere thought made her boil with rage, and she could barely wait until they took her to the Dome of Delights again the next evening. Well, she supposed she could talk to the other women in the domes every evening, except she didn't know how friendly the others were—plus there was a chance the palace guards wouldn't let her go unless the gods were there.
The longest she sat still was to ink a letter to her sister. Several letters, actually, since she crinkled up the first four. All of them contained some degree of pleading, of asking to be taken out of here. None of them matched the tone she knew should be sent to her sister. One that feigned calm and a cautious happiness, that showed things proceeded as hoped, and their alliance would be secure.
In the end, Kiara didn't bother with anything, not fully trusting the security of Kanthus to not open up the letter and read through the contents. They probably needed to check that she wasn't inciting rebellion or something. Might be a nice idea for this place and some of the crazy that influenced it. They were so wasteful with their light, their colors. They overdressed for everything, and spoke of heathen gods. Shapeshifters who had taken on a quality of the night hordes themselves for their own purposes.
Her second time at the court went easier. Vasha again sought her out, and Kiara understood now that for Vasha, she was exciting and new in a lifetime of attending the domes and never being chosen—though that seemed to be by active choice.
“I just find it so irritating that none of the servants can talk to me,” Kiara said, following the Highborn woman towards a secluded spot, elevated above the crowds. Others had chosen similar spots to hold conversation without interruption. “Like, how am I supposed to learn anything about Kanthus if I can't even talk to anyone?”
“True. That has to be annoying. We do just assume you already know everything by the time you come here. People aren't really used to marriages outside the city. It's rare—not unheard of. Just rare. You get some women who are curious about Kanthus. And, well, since we're getting more infertile women...” Again, Vasha's lips twisted in that peculiar way, “we are taking more people from the common population to help make new gods. And now, it seems, from other kingdoms.”
Are you infertile? Kiara kept the question to herself, sensing it might not be the best way to keep a new potential friend. Clearly one of those sensitive subjects. “I don't really feel like I'm actually important,” Kiara confessed, gesturing to the masked men, “because it doesn't feel like an arranged marriage, or that you Kanthians are taking the possible alliance thing seriously. Like, I'm here, but I'm being treated exactly the same as everyone else. I think. Like I'm a member of the city, and not of another nation with which you're trying to improve relations.”
At this, Vasha shook her head, smiling in that condescending way, as if Kiara had spoken utter nonsense. “The fact that you are being treated like any other woman is a good sign. We are taking this seriously. Some of the commoners might be against it, because it gives them less opportunity to marry up, so to speak, if we start arranging marriages from all corners of the illuminated world. But don't worry. You're secure. Though... you might want to get an open declaration from one of the gods soon, because I can see you're rather, uh, less than satisfied with your current position in life.”
Kiara ran her hands over her face, dragging down her eyelids in the movement. “Just something needs to happen. I want to get out, see this city and maybe even visit one of those stinky bogs of yours. I don't want to spend weeks staring at a wall whilst servants skitter at my feet, too timid to say anything. Except for those who are smart enough to sort of talk to me, but without actually talking to me.”
“Ah, yes. They're pushing the boundaries a little, but we forgive them for it,” Vasha said. “Mostly. I did hear of one Highborn who didn't even tolerate that, and he executed all of his servants. Rather a stickler for the law.” Vasha now preened down her flamboyant green and yellow dress, embedded with pearls at the bottom. The kind of dress that would soon mysteriously lose all said pearls if Vasha ever happened to make a trip down to the lower city in Fjorn. “Also, ‘stinky bog’?”
“You know. You have swamps everywhere. Swampy, nasty spots where no sane person would want to be at the wrong side of night.”
“I like our ‘stinky bogs’, thank you very much. We have the Flower Fens—that's where we get our food. Not stinky at all. We have the Green Morass—that's the area you see when you're coming in, with the green lightweavings. We extract some of the salt we need from it. Everybody likes salt. And then there’s the Black Muskeg.”
“I wonder what that area is all about,” Kiara said in a rather dry tone.
“Well, that probably is the ‘stinky bog’ you're referring to. Quite a few of the night hordes have simply drowned there, sucked in the peat bogs. We don't leave much light in it, because if we do, it gets absorbed by the night hordes anyway. They have a thing for stealing light.”
As the myths say they do, since we consider them responsible for the loss of the sun. Though what “they” actually are... people don't really know. Unless they're soldiers. Kiara crossed her legs, sitting more comfortably on the stone bench she and Vasha had procured. From this height, she enjoyed being able to watch some of the activities of the others. There were mostly familiar faces, even if she hadn't spoken to any of the other women directly yet. There was the blonde-haired woman who seduced the god yesternight, already back there, flaunting herself, ready for more action.
She recalled Vasha saying that the woman was looking for a relationship and going the wrong way about it, but Kiara simply suspected she was more or less the equivalent of a court prostitute, out there for a good time only. Though others might look at her as if she was a lowly being, Kiara didn't really care either way, except to silently wish her luck. At least someone knew exactly why she was there and didn't hide it.
Kiara drummed her fingers on the arm rest. What would Bethany do in this scenario? Well, for a start, Bethany probably wouldn't try and throw herself out of a window in boredom from people not speaking to her. Neither would she knot up her insides in frenzied irritation at the notion of having to sit around whilst this arranged marriage made itself happen.
In her absent, reflex gesture, Kiara inhaled her light and let it furl out of her fingers again. A little like smoking, since the light had a strange, ethereal quality to it as it infused her body and leaked out of her fingers.
Maybe she should learn to practise blowing light rings, just to add a few party tricks to her limited pool of talents. Come to think of it, what could Kiara do?
Well... she knew about ten useless poems off the top of her head. A few lessons of Fjorn etiquette—unfortunately, some of them had adhered themselves to her brain. How to ride a horse. How to not be kicked by a horse. How to select mushrooms that didn't kill you, and a few of the kitchen herbs—thanks to her bullying some of the kitchen staff to let her help them. She also did practise a little with the court jester who was, for all the fact he existed to make others laugh, a rather dour fellow.
Wait. Several things in Kiara's mind clicked together. “We're allowed to go on stage, right? Because we're supposed to draw attention?”
Vasha, who had been picking at her fingernails, jerked one eyebrow. “Yes. Why, are you planning to go there?”
The itch in Kiara's feet prompted her upright. She really did hate staying still for too long. The impulse seized her in such a glorious burst of purpose that she shunted all fear into a little corner. It scratched there, waiting to be let out, but once an idea had seized Kiara, once the impulse to do something consumed, nothing else mattered.
Even if it happened to be the worst idea ever. Her life was reminiscent of incidents like this. Jumping out the window with just a large and thin linen sheet to see if it would help slow down her fall. She theorized that using it like a cupped palm would snag some of the wind.
It... didn't really work. But at least she didn't break anything. Or when she decided she wanted to build a treehouse, and spent almost two days building it, neglecting to tell her parents where she was. By the time some worried huntsmen found her, she was seated in her treehouse, eating mushrooms. It still stood today, and she knew for a fact that other children used it, because she found their belongings there, and little notes passed to one another. She even left a message there that said: I hope you like my house! You are welcome to use it.
She had return notes thanking her, and soon a few similar constructions nearby, making a mini tree village.
Anyway. Stage. Going there. She strode past some of the men and women, hopped up onto the stage, took a deep breath, and projected, “Hello! Hello, there! Why, I've never seen such a sorry bunch of people, all gathered together like little chickens. Especially you, you've got such a beak nose. Bet you're always clucking about the place. Not you, though—you look like you're permanently offended by everything with that nose. Who nose, right?”
Those who did bother to stop and listen stared at her in shocked silence. Vasha had clapped her hands over her mouth, either in horror or in amusement. Not that Kiara could tell. Kiara pranced to one side of the stage, where an unfortunate musician was trying to play his whittled wooden flute. “You there! Tell me. Are you overcompensating by using such a lengthy piece of stick? Or do you just like having a bit of wood in your mouth? I understand, it must get so lonely at night, having nothing else but the symphony of your hands and a tiny flute to play with.”
“What in black hells are you doing?” one man exclaimed, his eyes bulging. Oh, lovely, Kiara thought. “How dare you insult us?”
“But my dear, that's the point!” Kiara hopped over to him, leaving the flute player confused and embarrassed. “For if no one insults you, however will you learn to not take yourself seriously? You have such a marvellous face. Bright red, with a tinge of green, like a watermelon. If I rapped on your skull, would it sound hollow, or full of mush?”
Kiara was fast aware that her little act was turning into a potential debacle, because none of the people seemed to be catching the mood. Maybe she didn't carry funny very well? The court jester spoke like this, and people thought him the best.
Or maybe... they didn't have this kind of humor. Oh dear. Best to just keep going then, and pretend nothing was wrong.
Just before the man spoke, she saw one of the masked men clamber up on the stage beside her. With a lurch of heart, she recognized the outline as Mordred, though he wore a different mask from before—a black one this time, with blue glowing eyes.
“Insolent wench!” Mordred announced, his voice a little muffled behind the mask. “You should know better than to insult the mentally challenged—they don't know how to take themselves any other way.” He spread out his hands and twitched his fingers in a beckoning gesture, drawing attention to himself.
“Except with a stick up the backside,” Kiara said. “Tell me, did your mother make that mask? Because it looks like you're hiding something serious. A wart, perhaps? A face someone would kill themselves over?”
“Better than your mother, who likely slept with every man in the tavern,” Mordred countered. “She likely did it just to get away from you. Imagine having such an ugly child.”
“Really? At least I actually know the name of both my mother and father. Well, maybe she did sleep around a lot, as you've rightfully said. I bet your father ran the moment he saw your face.”
Now that Mordred had joined in on the action, slinging silly insults in her direction, the crowd finally caught onto the mood and started chuckling with their debate. Kiara grinned, enjoying the fact that Mordred was willing to insult himself as much as her. Vasha clapped from the side, laughing so hard that tears leaked out of her eyes. Not everyone seemed to like the humor. The people Kiara had insulted originally certainly didn't like her.
Really do have sticks up their own asses. Their mock insults eventually ended with a fake wrestling match, where Kiara tried getting Mordred into a headlock, and he tried placing his hand over her mouth to shut her up. Those taken by the impromptu performance loved this, cheering for a winner. Mostly cheering for Mordred, except for Vasha, who actively screeched for Kiara. The ones who didn't like the performance simply went elsewhere.
Kiara strained against Mordred, and she got a good grip on his mask. Part of her wanted to yank it off, but the other part was terrified at the idea of violating what appeared to be a strong tradition. So she only lightly tugged, to give him plenty of time to stop the action.
He didn't. The mask slid off, revealing a dark-haired man under it, with bright yellow eyes. Kiara stood there with the mask in her hands, staring into his smirking face, those flushed, wide cheeks, and the black stubble around his chin and jawline, near his ears.
There were a few gasps in the crowd. And Mordred cocked his head, critically examining the mask. “Well, looks like you've taken the next step in our relationship.”
“I... I have?” Kiara's words came out in a squeak.
He seized her hand in his. “Why, yes, my ignorant barbarian. You see, if you happen to stare at the face of one of us... that means you're in bed with them.” Still grinning wickedly, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, before striding away from the stage. Kiara vaguely heard Vasha still cheering in the background and the murmurs of the other members of the court, either amazed or offended by what had happened.
Everything whirled around in Kiara's head, crazy and disconnected. Oh no. All she did was exchange a few insults with Mordred, then wrestle him because that stupid mask of his bugged her. She let go of it and it dropped to the ground, cracking in two. Down the corridor, they passed the full helm guards, who didn't flinch or stir, and then he led them both to a different section of the palace, with her pressed tightly into his body.
“You know, I only took off your mask for a joke...” Her protest sounded rather feeble, but she wasn't—she wasn't ready for the whole sex act. Not so soon. Usually, brides had months to prepare. They could get it into their heads about performing their duty. Kiara had significantly less time, and, well. She honestly didn't expect her father to ever send her off to something like this. Not without fearing creating a diplomatic incident, like her sabotaging the chances of an alliance between their kingdoms forever.
“Joke or not,” Mordred said, tone now serious, “if you don't want to have the rest of the court clamoring to burn you at the stake, you're stuck with me.” They rounded a corner and he placed her down. Though there was a twinkle of amusement in his yellow eyes, he tapped her on the nose and continued, “If I hadn't come up to you on the stage, you likely would have ruined the idea of an alliance altogether. Maybe your people are more open to insulting each other, but if you insult a Highborn, no matter how clever you make it, by all rights, they could order you whipped if you were a servant, or find some way of freezing you out. People take themselves seriously here.”
“But that's so boring,” Kiara huffed, hands balling into fists. “How are you supposed to find any joy in life if you just walk around with a face like thunder?”
“I'll have to reinforce in court later that what you did is considered harmless fun in your culture. But, don't tell anyone else—I'm glad you did that.” He winked, and her cheeks flushed slightly, helping to chase away some of the shame that had surfaced. “I'd gladly do that again.”
“Did you see their stupid faces?” Kiara allowed a grin to creep to her lips. “Some of them were ready to explode.”
“Now, now.” He steered her gently towards a door on the right side. Each door was numbered, and they stopped at Eighteen. “Don't push it. These are my rooms. We're supposed to now consummate, but I'll let you hide here for the night instead. And let people think that we've done it.” He shoved her inside the room after opening the door with a cast iron key, and she stumbled into a strange, artfully decorated room. Her eyes traced the light patterns in the air, which shimmered like a water tank, casting moving ripples upon the ground.
In fact, the entire living room had that underwater effect, with each object inside it enchanted to have that ghostly, sunken miasma about them.
“Oh, wow,” Kiara said, forgetting her anxiety completely, distracted by the fascinating sight. Her hands trailed into one of the light ripples, which broke apart and reformed as she swiped through. Her own light took on a blue undertone, absorbing the powerful magic of this room.
Such a waste of magic. And yet, so beautiful at the same time.
Mordred appeared rather proud of her amazement, and did the same thing as her, trailing his hands through the enchanted air. “It's quite a work of art, isn't it?”
“Yeah...” Kiara went to examine a vase upon the table with patterns of fish upon it. The lightweaving gave the vase an eerie glow, and she played with the green-blue hues around it. She could taste the strength of the magic upon her tongue. Easily an eighth level or higher weaving. The person likely knew both heat transference and extreme matter manipulation at that stage. Kiara barely made it past level one herself with her lightweavings. She was the other side of shameful waste, she supposed. “Can you lightweave at all?”
“No, unfortunately,” Mordred replied, now going for a door which looked to be the pantry. “But I do have other magic, powerful in its own right. We call it moonweaving. Imaginative, right?”
“Moonweaving?” Kiara stopped distorting the light around the vase and scowled at him. “How does that work?”
“Well,” he said, “traditionally, shifting use to be limited to the full moon. But since... things changed, and the world became dark, my kind has found themselves able to shift at will, along with some extra magic imbued. That enables us to see in the dark, to locate our enemies. And more importantly—to hurt them.” His features took on an evil glint then, and for a moment, Kiara caught a glimpse of the beast within. The werewolf he claimed to be.
She shivered. Another impulse sprang to mind, and before she could check herself, she blurted, “Can I see this werewolf?” Instantly, she cursed herself. Surely that was like asking someone to strip naked in front of her. Mordred's jaw tightened, but he inclined his head in acceptance, before backing off in the blue-tinged room. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and spread his arms in a dramatic gesture. Showing off, but it did serve for good stage presence.
Blue and white light formed about his body, until his form became a silhouette of luminous blue, morphing and bending out of shape. She heard distinct cracks, as if the bone under his skin stretched out against it, and everything else needed to rearrange itself around him. He became taller, wider, and the arm muscles became monstrous bulges. The face elongated into a snout-like shape, and when the glow faded, she was left facing a tall, frightening creature that made her shrink into the corner, even though she knew that would serve little to no use.
She... she'd thought, somehow, that the whole mask thing was just a stupid ritual. That the shapeshifting they talked about was surely some kind of light illusion, an advanced lightweaving that few people knew how to use.
Not this. Not an actual transformation. Kiara barely suppressed the scream that wanted to rip out of her throat when the creature lumbered towards her. When it neared, it crouched before her, close, so that the snout was inches away from her shoulder. She gave her wits a moment to gather themselves back up before she managed, “Okay. I wasn't expecting that.”
A sound slipped out of the werewolf's throat, halfway between a growl and a laugh. He remained still, so Kiara could pace around him, inspecting that fearsome body. His fur was a light gray, an almost creamy silver, and looked as if it might be soft to the touch. If he stood, he towered at almost twice her height, and she had to control her breathing to not panic, to not show any obvious signs of fear. He'd likely be able to smell it.
This is the “god” that these Kanthians put so much stock into, she thought, now reaching a hand to touch that fur. It felt coarser than she expected, but still glided over her fingers. A human that shifts into a creature. Or is he a creature that shifts into a human? Which was which?
He stood up suddenly and seized her waist in two hands. He picked her up with ease, as if she weighed no more than a sock, and suspended her high above his head. Her heart hammered at a gut-wrenching pace, and her cheeks drained of color. So much strength. Why, if he actually chose to do whatever he wanted to her, she'd be powerless to resist.
With a giant bound, he vaulted over one quarter of the room, including a table, and dumped her down upon an armchair. Then he stepped back, and his form suffused itself with that intense blue light again, shrinking and crackling back to his smaller human body.
“Sorry,” he said, rolling his jaw about and making a few cracking sounds, “I can't talk in that form. Perhaps I should have warned you about that beforehand.”
“I...” Kiara tucked her knees up into her body, her blue dress spilling underneath her. “I don't think any kind of warnings could have prepared me for something like that.”
She still didn't know whether to shrink away in terror at the knowledge that her parents expected her to marry one of these beasts.
With a start, she realized that the rest of the Highborn now expected Kiara to get it going with Mordred. Or perhaps marry him.
Though she didn't really... mind him, the thought made her slightly nauseous. “I... I have to ask. Am I supposed to marry you now?”
At this, Mordred's face took on a curiously blank expression. “Well, about that...” He pulled an armchair over and sat opposite her. “There may be one little fact I've forgotten to mention. Or two.”
Heart sinking, Kiara braced herself for bad news. “What is it?”
“Well,” he said, “you know the big deal about the masks and covering our faces?”
“Yes...” Though she didn't. Not really.
“If I reveal my face publicly, and consensually, since there's always someone who tries to be funny, every year or so—it means that I've declared someone as my mate. And I let you take off my mask. Everyone saw it. I could have stopped you, but I didn't. So for all intents and purposes, we are married right now.”
The words slammed into Kiara like a shield, and she mentally staggered back, reeling, having difficulty stringing the concepts together. Oh, she thought. OH.
So she had blundered. Spectacularly. Not only did she do that stupid, unfunny performance in front of everyone which almost risked everything her mother and father had been negotiating for, but in what she thought was just a playful moment of trying to take off that silly mask he walked around with, she had inadvertently declared her intentions to marry him.
Somehow.
“So, there's no ceremony? No marriage walk down an aisle where I wear a special outfit and vows are exchanged?”
“No. I'm afraid not. For all intents and purposes—you're with me. It's not the first time a foreigner's made the mistake. It won't be the last.” He had the audacity then to smirk. “It's good for me, anyway. I had my eyes on you since the first night. There's a kind of energy to you that I like.”
For some reason, hearing that irritated Kiara. In a way, she'd been tricked into marriage, simply because of her ignorance of some of the stranger rules of Kanthus. Which everyone had conveniently forgotten to mention to her, because they assumed she should know it. Although she didn't necessarily mind Mordred, she minded being shoved into an unexpected marriage that didn't seem to practise any ceremony or lengthy engagement time.
What a stupid place this Kanthus was.
Why did Mordred let her do that? Why didn't he warn her beforehand? She found it hard to listen to him, to appreciate anything he said when she reflected upon those little facts.
She went to glare out of Mordred's window, wading past the marine-lit room to a large window near a bookshelf, which showed outside to the glowing lake beneath, the bridges, and the lights of people moving back and forth. One last thing took her attention—the hazy image of a yellow-orange sphere in the sky, with craters and pockmarks upon it.
A false image of the moon depicted in their murals. For a split second, she had actually thought it might be real, until she focused better and saw that hazy, translucent effect that all lightweavings possessed.
An impressive enchantment, nonetheless. Even if it did make Kanthus stick out like a sore thumb from all directions, seeing a miniature moon dangling above the city. They really liked their moon symbolism. Though the werewolves supposedly got their power from the moon, so that made sense.
“It's a beautiful sight, isn't it?” Mordred carefully approached, his hands folded behind his back. “Probably one of the best things we've managed to do. Took some of our greatest lightweavers their most complex magic a few centuries ago.”
“Mm,” Kiara said, without any real inflection in her voice. Fjorn's glory were the gardens and the Forest of Light, really. The gardens contained many different flowers and plants, but not to the same degree as the ecosystem biomes in Kanthus, which grew more or less unchecked beyond the barrier. Fjorn's gardens were neatly manicured, as was a great part of the forest, roped off for display, and other areas for huntsmen to go and children to play.
Both places were beautiful in their own right, for sure. One surrounded by forests and mountains, the other by lakes and swamps. Each lights in the darkness, out of the few kingdoms that did exist. And to think no one had made an alliance with these Kanthians before. Or perhaps they tried, but the Kanthians had refused. So what made this deal so different?
An assurance of bloodlines, for one thing. But she wasn't marrying a king or a prince, but what they called a “god.” A shapeshifting monster.
“Tell me, Mordred,” Kiara said, turning to face him, fixing upon those yellow eyes, bathed a little in the wavy blue of the living room. “Is there really any benefit for me being here, for both of our nations? Because I can't help but think that if it doesn't matter who I marry, then it doesn't matter to you people if I'm here.”
Sure, Vasha might have countered and insisted upon the importance of marrying a god, but Kiara simply didn't get it.
Mordred found this question puzzling. “Of course it matters. All Highborn that are able to shapeshift come from the royal lineage of our society. I'm a grandson of the king. The king himself—Mathias—he's about two hundred years old. And out of all the Highborn, there are only about four hundred in total who are able to shapeshift. That's four hundred out of a seven-million-strong population. The rest will have powers of a sort, but to actually transform—that's rare.”
“Wait. So you're like a grand-prince?”
He nodded and grimaced at the same time, hands now fidgeting with his black and white suit. “More or less. There's a few of us around. Your marriage is also important to us because of the increased infertility in our female population. Something about the werewolf blood causes women to generally become infertile. Not men, though. We haven't figured out why. But it does mean we need to look to outsiders. And out of all the barbaric nations we've addressed, Fjorn seems to be one of the more civilized of the few we've seen.”
Kiara listened, though she wanted nothing more in that moment than to curl up and just go to sleep, and block out all the information and the world around her.
He saw her conflicted expression and gestured to the bedroom. “I'll sleep on the floor. You can sleep on the bed. In the morning, no one will be the wiser. And,” he added, “your servants will be able to talk to you. So you can cross one annoyance off your list.”
Kiara gave him a thin smile and bleated her thanks, though really, she didn't want to spend any more time near him. Not after taking advantage of her ignorance. Even if he was the kind of target her father and mother expected her to marry. The kind of person Bethany should have married.
I don't belong here. She ignored taking a bath, opting to sink into her own in the morning, and without bothering to change, slumped into the bed after kicking off her boots.
Though he might act amiable on the outside, he had clearly squeezed her into a position to take her for himself, culling the competition elsewhere.
At least he wasn't taking any more advantage of her, she supposed.
Not that it comforted her at all.
Not that it helped her to sleep any easier. She tried, though. She tossed and turned, but her mind was just too active, flitting from thought to thought like a fish, unable to stick to one thing for long.
When she finally managed to sleep, she did so fitfully, trying to hold back the nightmares. Feeling small in a big place that threatened to swallow her up, losing everything she was.
Chapter Four
As promised, Mordred didn't touch her. He maintained the stance as well, though the covert reminder that she had married him because of a social blunder irritated the lost day out of her. Why couldn't things just be straightforward and normal, like in Fjorn? Why did these Kanthians have to go by such silly rules?
Still, it was a relief to go to her quarters the next day to find Winifred there, now willing to talk to her directly. Since she'd... gulp... married.
“I'm sorry for the way you were treated. It's just worth more than all our lives combined to dare break the rules.” Winifred helped select a new dress for Kiara, one that covered her up modestly. A kind of fashion statement to show she wasn't looking for anyone, because little of her flesh would be exposed.
“I just want people to talk to me,” Kiara said. “And because everyone thinks it’s common knowledge, I accidentally got myself married!”
“Uh... 'accidentally?' Mistress, you took off a god's mask in public and then went to his chambers. That's not an accident.” Winifred pursed her lips in quaint amusement.
“It was just a mask. It's not like I threw my panties into the crowd and then leapt on him like some kind of crazed animal.”
“To the court, you may as well have,” Winifred said. “I think you'll find a few of them greatly disturbed by your bold actions. And there's talk about some of the insults you said. Tell me, did you really say that Lady Iswain was offended by everyone because she had a big nose?”
Didn't sound so funny, coming from Winifred's lips, but Kiara smiled anyway. “It's a joke. We do that in Fjorn. Make jokes. The best ones come from insulting people.”
“My advice, mistress. Please don't do that again. I was lucky to get delegated this position to a foreigner. If you get yourself exiled in disgrace, I'll be back to scrubbing the floors again in the kitchens. I'd like to keep my new position.”
“Oh,” Kiara said. “So you weren't always a maid?”
“No. It's considered a great honor to be one. And very few wanted to be maid to a foreigner, so I saw my opportunity in. I must say, mistress, you don't seem as barbaric as everyone expected you to be. But do tone down what you consider to be jokes.”
Kiara sighed, now shrugging out of her dress, walking over the puddle and sucking in the light from her necklace again. “Fine. No being funny. I'll be perfectly miserable and boring. Just how you people like it.”
Winifred let out a chuckle while helping to tug Kiara out of her shift, so she was naked.
Another thing Mordred recommended that she do was to leave her panties at his place. Seemed like he was right to say so, even though it made her blush furiously, because Winifred acted as if this was a perfectly acceptable sight to behold. Soon she presented Kiara in front of a mirror, letting her admire the simple black dress—a close reminder of home, with all the drab colors they preferred there.
Maybe Winifred had chosen the outfit especially for that reason. “Will you teach me some of the lightweaving, Winifred? I find myself in sore need of doing more than blowing light through my fingers.”
“To be fair,” Winifred said, “it does look impressive. And sure. We can start tonight if you want. In time, I'll get you to do some cool things. Such as...” Winifred concentrated for a moment, holding her hands close together as if clutching a box. Kiara watched in interest as light threaded together between Winifred's fingers, an amorphous cloud until it coalesced into what appeared to be a shimmering yellow fish. She then bound it with a few more threads, weaved some instructions for its animation, and the tiny fish flitted out, now beginning to explore the confines of Kiara's softly lit room.
That's at least a sixth level enchantment! Kiara smiled as she saw it hesitate in front of a painting, before swimming to the side of the wall. Weaving light together so that it imitated life—an above average skill. She likely knew heat transference as well. For a servant, this Winifred appeared remarkably skilled. Maybe it wouldn't take long for Kiara to exhibit level two abilities.
“That's amazing, Winifred! If you showed this kind of ability back in Fjorn, you can bet you wouldn't be a servant. Though I hope you'll be a better teacher than the ones we had. Watching paint dry was more fascinating than listening to them croon about their precious lightweaving.”
The redhead blushed at this, almost matching the color of her short hair. “That's kind of you to say, mistress. But for now, I think I'll stick to this.” She offered no more thoughts upon the subject, and Kiara rather regretfully buttoned up her black, elbow-length gloves, which seemed to take forever to do. She was always far too impatient, preferring clothes that could be slammed on fast. Winifred insisted on the gloves, however, saying they matched in a wonderful way that let people feast upon her beauty.
Ha. Beauty. Maybe she should walk around the palace pulling hideous faces until Winifred lifted that definition from her.
“Where would you like to go, mistress? Now that you have free roam of the palace and the city.”
The thought of being able to explore caught Kiara's brain on fire, and excitement threaded through her. “Right! I can explore. Well... everywhere, then. May as well get to see why all the Kanthians think their city is so great.”
Winifred grinned. “Do you wish for me to come with you, mistress?”
“Oh, please.” Kiara allowed her light to puff out in little orbs around her hands. “I have no idea where I'm supposed to go, or even where I can go. I'll need a local guide or I'll be hopelessly lost.” One of her fingers began twitching impatiently. Finally. She could get out of that accursed palace. Roam the city, maybe collect some books, though it took a rare book to make her sit down and concentrate long enough. Had those guards stuck around, too? She still had a half-finished letter lying around somewhere, and they never messaged her to say what inn they planned to stay in if so.
She wouldn't blame them if they did go.
Kiara passed Mordred during the walk to the gardens, and had to shove down her impulse to run as he approached her. “Hello, beautiful!” He leaned and kissed her on the cheek before she had time to react. “Remember, we're going to be meeting my father later tonight. He's excited to see you!”
“He... is?” Kiara gaped at him, before recovering slightly. “Ah, yes, of course. He'll want to get to know his new daughter at some point.”
Inside, though, her insides clenched, angry at the sudden marriage. Of knowing that whether she liked it or not, she now needed to roll along with it.
At least Mordred didn't try it on with her. He had approached her to confirm to the public—which meant the other servants scuttling around—that they had indeed consummated their “marriage.” Winifred smiled as Mordred sauntered away. She hadn't seen him without his mask before, and she now spun on Kiara in excitement. “That's one good-looking god you've taken, there. You're a lucky one, mistress. Most have to be content with those missing half a foot or with black teeth.”
“I'm sure,” Kiara replied wryly. She decided to change the subject before her inside emotions ended up displaying far too obviously on the outside. “So where would you recommend me to go?”
“Oh. Let's see... well. You'll probably want the scenic route—the one where they take all the tourists. We don't get a whole lot of tourists, but enough so that there's a few people making a living from showing them the sights.” She walked Kiara over to a waiting carriage beyond the gates where the sentries stood, and they clambered up into it. “The central bridge, please,” she called up to the driver, and he coaxed his two horses into a trot. They trundled over the main bridge, giving Kiara plenty of time to look down into the lake below, where she saw live fish covered in magic—level four talent.
Level one, manifesting the light. Level two, manipulating it. I'm probably just about level two. Level three, attaching it to a still object. Four, living.
What was five again? Something about attaching it to an object from a distance or something, and getting it to move of its own accord. Just like the ripple effects in Mordred's room, giving the whole place the eerie texture of something underwater.
Winifred here was a level six—manipulating the light so that it imitated living and still forms. Level seven was having the imitation without needing a source to attach to. Heat transference could happen from level three onwards, a kind of additional skill that was supposed to be learned at some point, though it became easier the higher up the skill chart someone was. Very few level threes could heat transfer, whilst many level fives could.
Drat. I'm wrong about what she might be. She's a level seven at least. That fish just went swimming off. It wasn't attached to a stone or the wall or anything.
Was Winifred even aware of how powerful she was? It irritated Kiara to think that someone so valuable was little more than a servant. Servant work should be confined to those who didn't have lightweaving. It should be given to those people so that they still had something valuable to do. Not to waste a lightweaver on something so mundane. Wasteful and pointless. Just like the lightweaving used in this city.
She couldn't help but stare at Winifred, just wondering how they let someone of her talents be stuck here.
Winifred already hinted at not being challenged on it, though. So she left it alone. Maybe she could ask Winifred to lightweave a few things as the kind of whimsical demands of a mistress. Test the girl's ability for herself.
Girl? I'm not much older than she is. She must be eighteen, nineteen at least. And I'm barely past twenty-one.
Winifred dutifully showed Kiara around the city, though it required a lot of lake visits, some bobbing on the water in flimsy little boats, and a trip to some of the better shops in the area. People stared at Kiara's dark hair in a distrustful manner, however. They really didn't seem to like a foreigner walking in their shops, even if said foreigner was married to one of their gods.
Or perhaps that was the issue. Someone that they considered lower than others happened to be hitched to someone they worshipped above everything else. Creating a conflict in their minds.
“It's like I said,” Winifred whispered, as she gently steered Kiara out of another hostile shop, “they don't like that you've robbed the chance for one of their own to marry a god. Every little girl dreams of making it big in Kanthus. Marrying a Highborn or marrying a god. Take this.” She picked up a book from a small market stall, propped up against a glowing bakery. “‘Love and Lust: The Prince of Wolves’. A book that many people love here. About a commoner from the streets who ends up accidentally marrying a god, but they fall in love with each other along the way and she ends up having lots of healthy gods as children. A classic.”
Kiara snorted, before stopping herself. Thankfully, Winifred shared the mood, for she grinned as well. “It's a terrible book, honestly, but this is the kind of fiction you'll see our single, lonely girls reading. You want to get it, mistress?”
Well, seeing as it sounded disconcertingly true to what happened to her, except it was an entirely different kind of accident, Kiara agreed. She probably wouldn't be able to manage past a few pages, anyway. They bought the book for about two silver coins, and Winifred tucked it away in a little knapsack that she wore specifically to help her mistress with whatever she intended to buy. Some women preferred entire carriages full of goods, according to Winifred, since they couldn't help but snap up anything that drew the slightest bit of interest, such as cleverly made ornaments with intricate lightweavings.
Most lightweavers of around third rank ended up being merchants, selling glow-necklaces and other useful objects. When a group of men down one main road openly stopped to glare, Winifred now became uncomfortable.
“Mistress... I think perhaps I misjudged the mood of my fellow Kanthians. I think it best if we don't leave the palace unless we have a full armed escort. I had hoped that as two women, a Highborn and her servant, we would more or less be dismissed. But it seems everyone knows who you are. News travels very fast.”
“What's the issue?” Kiara didn't exactly expect the people to love her. Nights, she didn't have much love from her own people in Fjorn. People just saw her as the brat.
But that hostility... that couldn't be just because she'd married a god, could it?
“We don't have any protection. I'm a fool, mistress. Let's hail a carriage.” Winifred instantly dragged Kiara over, though there were no carriages currently in sight.
“This can't be because I married Mordred, can it?”
“That's one small thing of many, mistress.” Winifred scowled, before pulling Kiara into a book merchant's shop. “Many people believe that a formal alliance with another kingdom will invite their weaknesses into us. They fear losing jobs, having too many foreigners in the city, and they fear the sacred bloodlines being weakened by lowly blood such as yours, compromising their ability to fight the night hordes. All of it nonsense, but things that people do believe.”
“Then why didn't you ask for protection when we went out earlier? Why didn't you caution me against this?” Slight worry entered Kiara. People tended to leave things out for the purpose of deceiving others.
“I didn't expect us to wander off this far, mistress. Following the main routes, we will have little chance of being accosted. But wandering over to these stalls, which you dearly wanted to look at...”
Kiara flushed slightly. True. She'd spotted the stalls, went darting off to them, and consequently found herself getting more and more distracted by all the different things. Such as that strange little sign outside that tavern, with lightwoven bees flitting around it. Or the small fountain which depicted water coming out of a wolf's mouth. Or that stall with the deliciously thin potato chips.
Everything should be okay. People wouldn't dare assault her for whatever reason. Why bother risking the wrath of the god she married? Pretty stupid thing to do, right?
Loud music blared out all of a sudden. Two men playing on trumpets, another one drumming. So loud that they drowned out the sound of any voices nearby.
Including the sound of a scream.
Three men closed in on her from the left, swerving out of a thin alley. Another two walked in fast from behind, and a carriage drew up. One drawn by four horses, big and black and completely sealed, so that anyone inside it couldn't look out.
A hand clamped over Kiara's mouth. Before she had time to struggle, the owner of those hands had bundled her into the carriage, along with a terrified Winifred. The doors locked and clicked. Sealed inside a pitch dark room, lit only by Winifred and Kiara's glow-necklaces. Instantly, Kiara yelled and started banging against the wood, along with Winifred.
No one responded.
No one came.
The carriage jerked off, the music deafening, with them screaming until their throats ran ragged.
Realizing that they were trapped.